


Wilco Fast Mover

by BurgerBurgerBurger



Category: WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Drinking & Talking, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Late Night Conversations, Sharing a Bed, darmonica, totally casual gals bein pals definitely not super attracted to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurgerBurgerBurger/pseuds/BurgerBurgerBurger
Summary: The darkness of the control tent obscures most of Darcy's features, but the thick cathode ray tube television illuminates the crown of her head with a phosphorescent halo. The light plays in the reflection of her glasses and the long eyelashes behind them, bathing her face half in shadow as she stares up from her chair at Monica. Her fingers curl around the hard plastic backing, and it occurs to Monica with a faint tickling at the base of her neck that the only time Darcy isn't watching Wanda is when she's watching her instead. She wonders if she knows how pretty she is.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Monica Rambeau
Comments: 40
Kudos: 196





	Wilco Fast Mover

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about trauma, pop culture, and a friends to lovers speedrun with my fave SWORD ladies, feat. Jimmy Woo, the ultimate bud. WandaVision spoilers up to 1x07.

Before the blip Monica had a therapist who wasn't all bad: a sixty-something psychiatrist from Connecticut who wore leopard print scarves with patterned, neon blouses and cat eye glasses on a bedazzled chain. Her name was Kim and they met over Skype twice a month, and Monica could occasionally be persuaded to talk about easy things. The terrorists she killed in the line of duty, the explosions that ruined her hearing on the left side, the time she nearly drowned in a locked car in Bangladesh as it sunk beneath the Brahmaputra.

Working for SWORD is a dangerous gig, but she knew that long before she aced the battery of recruitment exams. The Rambeaus lived with constant death threats; they checked their vehicles for cut brakes and bombs wired to their ignitions; they ran extensive background checks on their closest friends, and never felt the need to apologize for it. Monica wouldn't have it any other way.

Still, those were the easy things, the tidbits she was willing to occasionally discuss with Kim. She conceded her reluctance and revealed little details because if she could negotiate with terrorists, she could negotiate with her shrink. Kim said she'd made a lot of progress, that her openness was refreshing.

But when she asked about her mother, Monica regressed and wouldn't budge, a foundation unyielding and unmoving, and she didn't give a damn that Kim scribbled a frenzy of notes at her response. She pursed her lips and stared at her webcam, saying, "I have a good relationship with my mother."

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Kim.

"There's nothing to talk about," Monica said, and though she could pass any lie detector SWORD had to offer, she didn't get the sensation that Kim believed her.

Everyone knew about the cancer, whether or not she told them. Her mother was the Director of SWORD and a tangent of the Avengers, a hero and rock in turbulent waters. The whole world knew it was terminal. They knew Maria Rambeau had been slowly relinquishing her responsibilities at the agency, that she would be hospitalized soon, a shriveled husk with a bone-rattling cough, small and slow and weak, until she could power through and beat it into submission and remission. Each shutter-click of the cameras that followed them through the hospital doors felt like a violation of their privacy, another chip on the thinning marble wall of what remained of the Rambeau's dignity.

They stared at each other on the glowing screen, each placidly smiling, until Kim readjusted her cat eye glasses and changed the subject.

Monica didn't reach out to her after the blip; she's not sure Kim's even alive, and there's another crisis to handle. SWORD assigned her a new therapist, an easier one to distract, who was just as anxious to clear her for duty as she was to return to work. Captain Monica Rambeau is fine, and she can worry about the rest later.

It's no one's business but her own, and she doesn't want to talk about her mom or Aunt Carol or the cancer.

* * *

"It's very late stage capitalism industro-military chic," says Darcy, dropping her backpack on the bed nearest the door.

Jimmy stands in the doorframe behind her, shouldering her other luggage like an awkward pack mule, obviously uncomfortable about stepping a single foot into the women's bunker. The gender-segregated sleeping spaces remain a distasteful, old-fashioned, and unnecessary institution in Monica's mind, and they've never once stopped agents from fraternizing. This setup would have made her own romantic interests even easier to pursue. But since her return to New Jersey, she's been the only inhabitant of the women's quarters. Everyone else opted for the motel up the road, and she hasn't minded the isolation. She works too much to have unfilled down time in her bunk anyway.

Monica raises an eyebrow at Woo, who nods dejectedly as if to say, _Yeah, she talks like this all the time._

If she's being honest with herself, Monica would rather bunk with Jimmy. He probably snores but at least he's quiet and still, unlike Dr. Darcy Lewis, who exists in constant motion, flipping through her phone or tablet or sometimes both because she needs an uninterrupted supply of entertainment. It makes her the ideal person to monitor the Hex, to watch Wanda, because she catches every little detail— _easter eggs and continuity errors_ , she calls them— and there's keen intelligence and interest in the pale blue eyes that hide behind the reflection of her glasses.

They don't shine or shimmer in the light, but they remind her of the lapis lazuli she had in her rock collection growing up, a heavy, uncut metamorphic stone that Nick Fury brought her from Afghanistan. She loved the texture and weight of it, running her small hands along the sides, digging into the crevices and admiring the shadows it threw when she held it up to her bedroom window's light. Darcy's eyes are like that: heavy and intricate, the stormy-dull and deep of ocean currents, which might be one of the more romantic thoughts Monica's ever had in her lifetime.

_Pull it together, Rambeau,_ she thinks. 

She doesn't play that game, particularly when would-be flatterers constantly compare her own eyes to honey or caramel or mocha. It's always something edible, like they're afraid of saying brown eyes are beautiful unless they can consume them, and even though it's 2023, melanin remains a mystery to the world at large. She chews unhappily at the inside of her mouth.

"You don't have to stay here," Monica says. "There's no breakfast buffet."

"Oh, it's fine. I can only subsist on soggy eggs for so long, and Hutch eats all the bacon before I wake up." Darcy points at the bed she claimed, gesturing for Jimmy to set down her bags. "There's good."

"Okay," he says. He drops the bags and backs out of the room, shrugging as he mouths, _Good luck_.

Monica smiles ruefully at his departing form. Darcy doesn't unpack so much as explode, scattering her belongings across the bed she presumably intends to sleep on later that night. The only rhyme or reason to her methods that Monica can discern is that clothes go in a pile on the top bunk, and everything else goes in piles on the bottom. Monica sits on the edge of her own bed, eyebrows furrowed, openly watching as her new roommate putters around, plugging in electronics and exploring the bathroom amenities.

Monica knows why Darcy's here. It rankled her at first, the idea of having a babysitter, just a different form of keeper from SWORD, a chaperone with ulterior motives. _I'm a huge fan,_ Darcy said, and Monica smiled mirthlessly. She'd met huge fans before, hangers-on and ambulance chasers, desperate to get closer to bigger celebrities, ambitious to be part of the fold because they have no concept of how quickly it could kill them.

She's a wise woman though, less impetuous than people suspect, and actions have always spoken louder than words in her measure. She withheld judgment, watching Darcy with Jimmy and Hutch and Webb: respectful and friendly, human and genuine in all the same ways she was with Monica. There is no evidence of deferential treatment, no coattail-clinging mindset in Dr. Darcy Lewis, and not simply because Monica read her file and knows her history with a certain god of thunder and his estranged astrophysicist partner.

She remembers too, the worry on Darcy's face in the medical tent, and the way her eyes widened in fear at Monica's blood sample. It hurt, whatever Wanda did to her, worse than being shot in Dallas or being electrocuted in Budapest. She didn't need Darcy to say she was re-written on a molecular level when she passed through the Hex. She felt it: ten thousand different versions of herself overlaid with something more powerful, more unstable, screaming in her mind for a release she couldn't grant. In an instant she exploded through the glitching wall and hit the dirt with a momentum that should have killed her. Geraldine was gone and Monica gasped in dizzy horror and relief, and knew that she was not the same. She looked up at the stars and prayed for a stability she still hasn't found since her return.

"You don't need to stay here to watch me."

"Yeah, I know you're _super_ tough. I get it," Darcy says as she digs through the larger of her two bags, pulling out deodorant and what looks like a collection of beanies in every color. Her words spill out like her luggage, "Look, the motel up the street is fine or whatever, but it's annoying getting grilled about my badge every single morning at the gate. I'd rather just crash here. Less footage to catch up on in the morning, and back shift always adjusts my dials anyway and it's like, a huge pain in the ass." Darcy turns emphatically to finish making her case, frowning as she waves a green beanie. "Plus, if I was _really_ worried about you, I would make Webb come and stay in here because I'm not that kind of doctor. I can't do CPR, but let me know if you need like a Hertzsprung–Russell diagram done. I love a good scatter plot."

The concern bleeds onto her face, clear as the blush across the bridge of her nose and the rapid, nervous rise and fall of her chest as she stares across the room at Monica, who rests the back of her head against the cool metal base of her top bunk, and stares back unflinchingly. Darcy is lying, but her reasons are sound. Monica would do the same thing, were their roles reversed, though she wouldn't bother sparing Darcy's ego. She's not that sweet.

It bothers her that Darcy tried in the first place, and irks her even more that she's proving her right for it. That sort of predictability could get her killed.

Darcy falters, "I'm not— I can go if you want to be alone. I'm not trying to infringe on your space."

"No, it's not a problem," Monica replies. She chews on her lips, realizing with no small measure of guilt how intimidating and inhospitable she can be when she's focused on problem-solving. She releases the tension in her shoulders and watches Darcy mirror her, still wringing the green beanie in her hands. "I'm happy to have you. Do you need help unpacking?"

"Oh, _unpacking_. I'm not so much an unpacker as a complain-until-I-find-what-I need kind of girl."

"So, no?"

"Yeah, no. Thanks though." Darcy eyes her bottom bunk, haphazardly chunking her last bag on the mattress before unzipping her boots and flopping onto the bed. She pulls her leather backpack up to her chest, rummaging through it. "I'm going to paint my nails." She rolls toward Monica, flourishing a red nail polish bottle. "If you come over here I will do yours free of charge. But only the first time. This is a reputable business, not a charity."

Her head spins with the spiraling trajectory of Darcy's dizzying subject change, but she smiles. She's never had her nails done by a friend or a girlfriend, and only went to the salon once, over a decade ago, for her senior prom. But Darcy watches her with the same bemused attention she gives her surveillance of Wanda, and she taps the nail polish bottle against the side of her glasses in a steady clinking rhythm.

Monica's tired but not that tired, and it's a nice gesture. She doesn't have a good reason to refuse. She exhales through another round of clinking before she asks, "Got anything in blue?"

"Psssshttt," Darcy breaks her gaze at once. "'Do I have anything in blue?' This whole bag is just nail polish because I know how to prioritize." She sits up, too short to bang her head on the top bunk, and dumps the backpack's contents at the foot of her bed, spilling bottles, tampons, ear plugs, toothpaste, and a hairbrush across the drab blanket.

"Maybe that one can be your storage bed." Monica suggests. Her own accoutrements are folded and knolled with military precision in the trunk at the foot of her well-made, creaseless bed.

Darcy furrows her brow. "Yeah, I didn't think that through. It's whatever." She roots through the pile of nail polish bottles before moving to an unoccupied bunk bed beside her first, directly across from Monica's. She holds up three bottles in different shades of blue. "You have options: Electric Bluegaloo, Porcelaini Martini, or Arctickle Me Not-Pink?"

"Those names are awful."

"Yes," Darcy proudly smiles.

"I guess Electric Bluegaloo?"

Darcy nods, patting the bed beside her. "Excellent choice. That's gonna look great on you."

Monica joins her on the bed, surrendering her left hand first. Darcy readjusts her palm until it rests on her knee, leaning over her nails with a practiced eye. She brushes in steady strokes, coating evenly, and Monica realizes that the only time Darcy isn't talking is when she's completely occupied with a task. The paint is smooth and even, the color sharp enough to stand out even in the dim lighting of their barracks. She realizes too that she's warm with her proximity again, because the cheap springform cot sinks beneath their combined, concentrated weight until they lean against one another in the dip of the mattress.

Darcy sits upright and closely inspects Monica's hand as she holds it in her own, lips pursed in focus. She clears her throat and says, "Next hand."

Darcy's not a good liar. She's getting nervous and her cheeks are red with it, warmer even than Monica's. Her gaze wanders the room to avoid making eye contact, lingering on her work, though her lapis lazuli eyes follow the lines of Monica's knuckles and veins as if she can't resist their appeal, and she bites at her lower lip.

Monica gives her right hand over slowly, watching with rapt curiosity from the corner of her eye.

* * *

The surveillance tent is dark and mostly quiet except for the oasis of murmured conversations and pale, flickering lights at Darcy's watch station. The static of the generators buzzes in Monica's periphery, steady and only slightly less ominous than the unnatural hum of the Hex. The base of her neck prickles with the recollection, the mindlessness, the pain of reemergence as herself. She has never before lost control of her body. 

"I mean they slapped a Geiger-Muller in my hand and were like, 'Here you go!'"

Monica swallows down her discomfort like a hot coal in her throat. It's bubbled up more recently, the memories of her time in Westview, distracting her from the mission, from her determination to save Wanda and whatever remains of Vision and the rest of the citizens trapped inside. They can't afford that debilitation. _She_ can't afford that debilitation. 

Darcy flips the TV dials in the tent, flattening frequencies here and there for a clearer signal on the main screen, the one where Wanda feeds Sparky the dog a slice of ham from the refrigerator. Darcy never deviates from this channel. She continues, "Like I knew how to use it."

"But you did know how to use it," insists Jimmy.

It surprises Monica how chatty the other agent has become, not that he was ever unfriendly. He props his head on his knuckles, hunched over the wooden desk littered with empty candy wrappers and coffee cups, his white button-up wrinkling at the elbows. She supposes a prolonged exposure to Darcy's stream-of-consciousness monologues would have that effect on anyone.

"Well yeah, but not because of my PhD. Like it's totally unrelated."

"Why do you know how to use a Geiger-Muller counter?" asks Monica, her arms folded as she stands behind them, eyes fixed on Wanda. She's been in Darcy's company long enough too, and curiosity is a good thing, she tells herself. She can rely on Darcy and Jimmy, they've proven that much, and Darcy is interesting. In a bizarre, borderline annoying way. She's good for a distraction, at least.

Darcy spins in the chair to face her, followed quickly by Jimmy, and she fidgets as she sheepishly replies, "Did you ever see that HBO series _Chernobyl_? It was like, wow-level good. Anyway, I bought one and played with it for like two weeks but never found anything more fun to measure than like Fiestaware, which is radioactive but only a little bit, at least until I got here. SWORD's GM counters are way more advanced but the function is the same. Also the Hex is radioactive as shit, just throwing that out there. But you should watch _Chernobyl_. I'd watch it again with you. It's that good."

The darkness of the control tent obscures most of Darcy's features, but the thick cathode ray tube television illuminates the crown of her head with a phosphorescent halo. The light plays in the reflection of her glasses and the long eyelashes behind them, bathing her face half in shadow as she stares up from her chair at Monica. Her fingers curl around the hard plastic backing, and it occurs to Monica with a faint tickling at the base of her neck that the only time Darcy isn't watching Wanda is when she's watching her instead. She wonders if she knows how pretty she is.

"Eyes front, soldiers," Monica quietly orders.

Jimmy whips back around at once, practically saluting.

But Darcy smirks, her stare lingering for a moment before she mutters, "Roger, roger, wilco, fast mover. But technically I'm not in your food chain."

Monica blinks once before she chuckles, "What?"

"I don't work for you."

"I'm aware of that—"

"Oh, you mean the military speak or whatever. You know, like: foxtrot uniform charlie kilo, roger, roger."

Jimmy frowns, "We say roger on the comms sometimes but the rest is gibberish to me. I get the phonetic alphabet—"

"Wilco? Will comply? Like the band?" Darcy tries.

Jimmy shrugs, "I guess—"

"We don't use that lingo at SWORD. You might get a 'stand by' or 'copy' once in a while." The grin on Monica's face slowly fades, replaced by something contemplative and mournful. Something she wishes she didn't feel the need to clarify, or to speak about at all. But Darcy stares up at her and her voice softens to a murmur she can't temper into steel, "And my mom was a fast mover, not me. I was never a fighter pilot."

She doesn't know why she corrects Darcy's botched military jargon, or why she reveals anything at all about her mother, even something so trite that they all knew anyway. The static waves of her mind crash down, jumbling her thoughts again like she felt when she was Geraldine, not Maria Rambeau's daughter. The spectrum of the people she's become is warped and overlapping, confused by five years of nothingness and the riotous terror of returning to a new world that kept spinning without her presence in it. Her mother died two weeks ago; her mother died three years ago. Both are true and both splinter every version of her like a blade in her chest, and the glimmer that dims the most when she thinks about the things she's lost is the first version of her, who loved her mother and Aunt Carol with all her heart. Her idols were there to guide her, heavy and strong and permanent, until they both went away.

Jimmy's shoulder blades tighten and draw together beneath his pressed Oxford at the same time Darcy's lips part, and Monica can read these movements like a mission dossier: tension, pity, sympathy, all things that make her want to scream and storm out of the room. But she sees a glimpse of something else: the weight of her trust and the way they bear it with dignity. The tent is dark except for the screens, and the signal interference in her mind is filtered out until she thinks that maybe it's safe to talk about her mother a little bit, in little ways, when it's just with these two and she feels most like herself.

She would never be a fast mover and she missed her mother's dying breath, but Monica could work miracles from the ground, come hell or high water. She's fairly certain she's survived both already.

Jimmy glances at Darcy as surreptitiously as he can manage, which isn't surreptitiously at all, but she hasn't turned around in her chair to face the screen again. Her face twists in something like sorrow before finally she smiles, broad and bright as daylight. She says, "So you'd be like Fast Mover Junior."

A pressure relieves from deep in Monica's chest, and she laughs in spite of herself. "Absolutely not."

Darcy's face lights up again and a goofy giggle slips past her lips as she says, "We could shorten it to FMJ. No one has to know."

Jimmy cringes, still facing the screens. "This is the most cursed thing you've ever said."

"I agree," says Monica.

"You two just haven't been around me long enough. FMJ is going to catch on, and I say worse things on the regular. Don't underestimate my Freudian slips."

Monica places a hand on her shoulder, firm and unrelenting, and drops her voice into the cool alto she's perfected for interrogations. She can play too, though the sensation is murky and creased like forgotten clothes in a drawer, folded and left to wait; she still knows how. She leans down until her lips whisper into Darcy's ear, so close she can smell her lavender laundry detergent and lemony shampoo.

"If you ever call me FMJ, I will hide your body where no one will ever find you, Darcy."

Her spine immediately goes rigid; neck and shoulders pulled back like a drawn bow. Darcy exhales once and her mouth hangs open loosely, but she doesn't refill her lungs, her eyes wide, pink dousing her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

"Sorry," Monica removes her hand, stepping back to apologize because the only thing more unnatural than the Hex is a silent Darcy. "It was just a joke. I can be kind of intense, but I didn't mean to scare you."

Darcy huffs a laugh, turning in her chair with a loud creak, her wide-eyed stare trailing Wanda as she magically cleans her kitchen. " _Scared_ , yeah. I'm good. Good— uh, good joke."

She spends the next thirty seconds adjusting the dials, though the picture clarity on the screen remains sharp as a razor, which Jimmy repeatedly mentions. Monica stares at the back of her head, the echo of her truncated exhale replaying in her mind. When her hands finally settle in her lap, Monica pulls up a chair to her other side and takes a seat at the surveillance table, careful not to touch Darcy or her dials.

* * *

The shadow of the perimeter scout passes by Monica's slatted metal window, barely visible in the distant illumination of the camp floodlights, and the hazy glitch-glow of the Hex. In the morning she'll tell the field agents to stagger their route timing because their predictability is far from secure, and most of this team has never had to live or die by the perceptiveness of their night patrols. Most of them haven't been in counter-intelligence long enough to know what _prevent, pursue, protect, prepare_ really means in practice, and even if they did, it's less effective with magical beings and aliens. Lethal force gets the job done, but there are better ways to predict and neutralize threats in Monica's professional opinion.

She rolls onto her side, facing the walkway down the center of the barracks and the fidgeting lump of blankets that is Darcy. She flipped the light switch in their room nearly an hour ago and it's pushing midnight, but they both stay awake later than they should, chatting in the dark about nothing in particular.

Last night it was the remaster of _Final Fantasy 7_ — Darcy was delighted to discover Monica's relative nerdom, and her willingness to admit that she watched all four seasons of _Naruto_ , though they each swore each other to mutual secrecy on the anime front— and the night before it was hydrogen wave functions, particularly the Bohr radii probability that Darcy most lamented from her thesis.

"It sorta sucks in the control tent. Buncha dudes and no chicks," her voice is muffled until her head pops out, still bespectacled and beanied. "I mean I get to look at Wanda all day, so no complaints, but I lived that life in the astrophysics department and I am just so sick of floating around in male-dominated fields. Where are the ladies who will come dominate my field?"

Monica laughs, pulling up the facility perimeter reports on her tablet. "I'm sure you could pay for that."

"Totally not what I meant, but a stellar suggestion." Darcy pulls off her silver beanie, tangled hair spilling behind her. "Wish my ex was into that."

Monica raises an eyebrow, "He wasn't supportive of lady domination?"

Air hisses between Darcy's teeth and, very slowly, she laces her fingers behind her head and stares at the bunk above her. The noise of her escaping exhale runs into her correction, and she drags out, "She."

Monica's brow knits together and she thinks in that moment that, while she has an impressive skillset that includes reading _actual_ radar, she still can't identify another sapphic within fifty feet of her unless they explicitly tell her, _I sleep with women._ It is one of many reasons why she remains single despite her multitude of shining qualities. Or at least that's what her mom used to tell her: _honey, you wouldn't recognize a vampire if one bit you on the neck_.

"Ah," she says, lowering her tablet.

"Yep. Pronouns. Always a fun surprise." Darcy sucks her lips into her mouth, pulling the comforter up to her chin. "But yeah, I didn't mean domination in like a sex way. Well, I guess I kind of did. I don't know. I just worked and studied a lot, and think she needed more from me than I could give. I like physics but it didn't come naturally to me, so I practically lived in the library and lab. We tried to work it out but we weren't really compatible in a lot of ways. Only lasted like 4 months."

Across the room Darcy looks very sweet in her cocoon, bundled up in her musings and vulnerability. Monica waits until she's finished before gently replying, "I get that. I haven't legitimately dated in a long time. It's been, _god_ , three years or so since I've had a girlfriend. Eight years if you include the blip." She hates that word. The _blip_. Such a blasé title for the catastrophe that stole her mother and half a decade from her. "I've never been great at meeting people, or keeping them around. Other than casual hookups and stuff like that."

The moment she says _girlfriend_ , Darcy immediately rolls over and watches her back, lips parted as she searches her face. The floodlights outside the slatted window cast lines across her cheekbones, and Monica can see her obvious interest and the way she hangs on her every word. She's not slick, but then, neither is Monica. She wonders if Jimmy noticed.

"I know it's kind of fucked up to say, but I feel like we're having a moment and I want you to know that I liked you as Geraldine. Like as a person. You meant a lot to Wanda, uh, before she kicked you out."

"That wasn't really me," Monica slowly replies. The partial truth of her own words tugs somewhere in her stomach, a clenching, crackling sensation. It was her, some of it, a sliver of her mind puppeted by a broken woman, reshaping her to fit a simple narrative. She isn't mad at Wanda for it, though the violation occupies a deep pit in her heart, and she isn't mad at Darcy for bringing it up, though she wishes she had complimented Geraldine less, and Monica more.

"Yeah, I know," Darcy sadly replies. "But the characters in her head are sort of like a reflection of the people inside. And Geraldine was kind, and smart. And super funny. If it had just been a show and not a super fucked up trauma-fueled alternate reality, you'd have been my favorite character." Her voice lowers, "You delivered the twins when no one else was there."

Her mind supplies her with a flash of Wanda on her living room floor, eyes blown wide, flinching with contractions and terror. It was the first major stutter in her role: Geraldine knew what to do because Monica knew what to do. She was calm and steady and childbirth never frightened her, and little tidbits of information slipped past Wanda's filters in the extreme distraction of her delivery. Monica was so proud of herself, so happy to have helped, that the recognition of wrongness didn't creep up her spinal cord until later, when she thought of the boys and their perfectness and size; two unnatural, clean infants, readymade for TV.

Twins, like Wanda and Pietro.

Then the static haze filled her head, and Wanda didn't let her think any more after that.

"I'm sure they would have been fine."

"Yeah, for sure," Darcy shifts, eyes pinned on the slip-resistant steel ground. "It was just a really nice thing. I know it's stupid to relate it to a TV show when it's obviously not, but I just— that scene was really important to me and it only happened because you were there."

Shifting beneath her blankets, Monica's hands interlace over her stomach, clinging and flexing uncomfortably at this candid confession. She doesn't have any of her normal instincts to guide her through this process, no wise words whispering in the back of her mind telling her to _say something nice back, hon_. There is a pretty woman across the room who likes some shade of her— a silver of her helpfulness and capability and commitment, delivered by Geraldine but driven by Monica— but she doesn't know what that means or how much she wants to explain, or how to speak any more about it when she already feels raw and stripped bare.

In the end, all she answers is, "Thanks for saying that."

"Sure," Darcy smiles faintly, and it doesn't reach her eyes. For once she rolls away without pulling out her phone, curled into a tight ball of embarrassment or something else Monica can't read through the dark and distance. She huddles beneath her blankets and remains silent until she falls asleep.

* * *

Monica prefers to do her research when she has the time, though SWORD rarely affords her that opportunity, and her gift has always been making fight-or-flight, snap neck decisions at Mach speed: the sorts of choices people tend to fear. They always glance around the room, looking for a face braver than their own to lead the charge, and Monica is perfectly comfortable being the one to guide them.

And as they stand in tense silence in the control tent, surrounded on all sides by other agents of SWORD, she thinks that maybe Darcy shares a little bit of that edge, that sharpness of spirit too. Her fearlessness is masked by bright red lipstick and displeased nose wrinkles and _Real Housewives_ references, but she steps up to Hayward too— she _shames_ Hayward just like Monica does— for being a textbook tyrant and a coward, and it warms the skin of Monica's chest with secondhand fury and firsthand gratitude.

They stalk down the corridors together, Jimmy and Monica trailing behind Darcy, whose short legs work doubletime as she returns to their room— to the women's barracks— and the agents in her wake glance at each other, impressed.

"He can get absolutely fucked," Darcy mutters.

Monica barks a laugh, hard and cruel, and Darcy doesn't hide the way she smiles in return at her reciprocal spite. Monica strides ahead of her, holding open the door to their barracks and says, "You're absolutely right. Hayward's wrong, and Wanda's not a terrorist. I've dealt with enough of them to know."

"You can say that again." Darcy stops in the doorway and peers up at her, standing a little closer than she usually does, jutting out her chin, proud and obdurate. Jimmy hovers behind her, his eyes darting back and forth between them like a ping pong game he can barely follow.

"Which part?" Monica asks, and her voice drops because she's pretty sure they're flirting. No, they _are_ flirting, and she's still hot beneath the collar and Darcy's own cheeks flush with residual anger and whatever heat this is simmering between them.

"Honestly, all of it worked for me," Darcy smirks, passing her in the doorway. She moves straight into the bathroom and calls over one shoulder, "I'm showering, but when I'm done I'd better have you two, a Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme, and _The Mummy_ ready to go on my laptop." She closes the door and shouts, "It's self-care! Today sucked!" She reopens the door, sticking her head out to add, "And maybe some whiskey, even if it's the cheap stuff."

Jimmy sighs, "I'll get the Crunchwraps, but I'm not sneaking booze on base."

"It's not like they do vehicle searches," Monica says.

" _Captain_ ," Jimmy breathes, aghast.

"I'm just saying," she laughs. "I won't say no to bourbon either. I'll get the movie ready."

Darcy huffs, "I see one of you has your priorities in order. Chop chop."

The door closes and Jimmy, beleaguered as ever, stalks away while Darcy runs an ultra-hot shower, steaming up every inch of the bathroom. Monica doesn't know why it delights her so much to be ordered around by a scientist she's known for a week, who couldn't outrank or overpower her if she tried, but there's something endearing and familiar in it, and she recognizes a good thing when she sees it.

_Always loved strong women_ , she tells herself, scrolling through the pirated movie library.

It doesn't take long for Jimmy to return with food, though there's no booze in sight, or for Darcy to cool down, collecting all the pillows from the barrack and piling them onto her bottom bunk in a shape akin to a nest. She puts Monica on one side and Jimmy on the other— he repeatedly, weakly protested sharing a bunk, citing that he could stand in the corner and still see the screen, until Monica leaned across Darcy, tapped the bed, and commanded, "Sit, Agent Woo."— and she wedges herself between them with the food and computer in her lap. Like three middle schoolers on a late night bus trip, sharing the back seat well past their bedtime.

They chat during the quiet scenes, largely about their shared appreciation of Rachel Weisz, and Jimmy complains that he's not into reality TV or mainstream movies or internet memes, but enjoys a podcast and TED Talk here and there. As Monica predicted she would, Darcy brutally razzes him.

"Okay, podcast guy, you _distinguished_ gentlemen," Darcy snorts. "You're so _smart_ , Jimmy. And you're _definitely_ not lying. What an academic hot take that reality TV rots your brain and you can't possibly gain anything mentally stimulating from mainstream entertainment. We can go get you a spare copy of _Ulysses_ if Rachel Weisz as an extremely hot, British librarian just isn't holding your attention. Maybe some James Joyce will tickle your pretentious fancy, sir?"

Monica chides him, "You knew this was going to happen."

Jimmy eats his Crunchwrap in moody silence and sinks against the wall of pillows. 

"People think I'm stupid as shit, which, to be fair, I absolutely am." Darcy moves on to the bag of cinnamon twists, still holding her Crunchwrap in her other hand. "But not in the way you'd expect. There is a method to my madness and I'm intent on educating the ones who will hear the good word. I introduced my whole department to the cultural touchstone that is _Jersey Shore_ and a staggeringly low number of them enjoyed it. But Dr. Xiè? A diamond in the rough. Huge fan of Snookie."

"She's the best part of the show," Jimmy mumbles.

"Agent Woo!" Monica playfully tosses a wrapper at him, "The truth comes out. Everyone watched _Jersey Shore_."

Darcy chews and nods, bumping against Monica's shoulder as she repeats, "Cultural touchstone. Why do people shit all over pop culture like it's not an extremely essential subset of our sociological growth?"

"I didn't—"

Darcy holds up a cinnamon-dusted finger. "Jimjams, no. You haven't seen _The Mummy_ , so you have no say in this."

He mutters, "I do like Brendan Fraser though. _George of the Jungle_ was really good."

"A man of taste after all." Darcy clinks their Crunchwraps together in a toast. "Your pop culture preferences are safe here, Jimmy. Just own it."

* * *

Darcy saves tidbits of information like a mental packrat, filing away Jimmy's birthday in her phone calendar when he lets slip that it's December 28th, commenting on his horoscope and the extreme misfortune of how often people probably bundle Christmas and birthday presents. Monica doesn't know astrology and doesn't commit birthdays to memory, but when they turn back to the screen to watch Wanda and Pietro arguing, she puts Jimmy's birthday in her phone calendar too.

Darcy knows their food orders and pet peeves; she knows Jimmy likes to fold his jacket on the table instead of hanging it on the back of his chair, and Monica likes to sit where she can see the room entrance and won't be caught by surprise. Darcy always saves her a seat in the cafeteria at lunch— though the other agents give Monica a wide berth since she was ejected from the Hex— hamburgers again, and even gets her a drink: Coke Zero because she likes it more than diet or regular. Darcy takes these notes and doesn't comment on them, but leaves a space for Jimmy's jacket and the chair facing the door is always empty in case Monica wants it.

It's thoughtful, Monica decides, and she likes the attentiveness of it. Though she normally prefers to stand, she likes that sitting next to Darcy is an option, not a mandate.

The day's been a long one and they're all haggard with overwork and tired of the 90s fanny packs and butterfly clips, and the dead ends on why this is happening at all. Their whiteboard fills with more questions than answers, the twins are rapidly aging up, Vision grows in awareness and discomfort, and Monica thinks this is the hardest part to watch. Sympathy scalds her when he furrows his brow, his memories hazy, and she looks away from the screen.

She knows Darcy notices, though she never brings it up.

That night they return to the women's barracks after everyone showers and changes into pajamas. To their delight and surprise, Jimmy Woo knocks on their door and grins, holding a shopping sack full of low-end booze and junk food. Monica raises an eyebrow, impressed.

"Jimmy... yes." Darcy ushers him inside, her hair still damp and clinging to the back of her night shirt. "I told him he was morally obligated to bring me bourbon today because this shit is distressing and I need a processing outlet, and the old boy came through."

Jimmy lays out his bottles, plastic cups, and haul of gas station candy on a spare bunk. He says, "We have here a fine selection of trash liquor, including Goldschläger, just in case we feel like vomiting glitter."

"Cursed," says Monica. "Just bourbon, please."

"Yeah," Darcy scowls. "I've experienced enough traumatic things this week. Thanks."

Jimmy shrugs. "Traumatic?"

"Yes, oh my god. None of this is normal. None of what's happened to anyone in the last 10 years is normal. We've literally survived multiple extinction-level events and violence on a galactic scale, to say nothing of the absolutely unnatural and unnerving situation we're currently monitoring with a city full of people who have completely lost their agency and control over their bodies." Darcy inhales deeply, sucking her lips between her teeth. "And that's why I wanted some bourbon and a pajama movie night. We deserve this. Now are we going to watch _Alien vs. Predator_ and get drunk or not?"

"I've already seen it," Jimmy complains, pouring bourbon into his plastic FBI cup.

"Yeah, so have I. Don't be such a Capricorn, Jimmy. You're just mad because I don't want to watch _The Fast and the Furious_ again."

_"Fast and Furious_ is really good. And it's shorter. And it's late," he pouts.

"First of all, it's not shorter. Second of all, it's going to take us all two hours to fall asleep anyway. Insomnia's a bitch." Darcy makes a grabby hand gesture. "Why is this empty? Why do I not have a cup yet?"

They squeeze into their seats, sipping on bourbon, arguing the finer points of who would actually win in a fight: Alien or Predator. Jimmy says Predator because it's a killing machine with a mind, Darcy says Alien because it's a killing machine _without_ a mind, and Monica remains divided on the issue. She hasn't seen the movie and is fairly sure they'll just kill each other and the ending will be vague because that's how these franchises work.

Even though Darcy's seen the movie several times, she startles and squeals at every jump scare, yanking on the blanket to hide her face and nearly toppling the laptop and three cups of bourbon on two separate occasions. Finally Monica rearranges them, taking the laptop onto her own legs, and throwing the blanket more safely over her and Darcy— Jimmy says he gets too hot when he drinks— until Darcy has to content herself with hiding against Monica's shoulder when she's nervous, leaning into her, heavy and intimate. 

Little puffs of breath tickle Monica's ear as Darcy exhales, pressing closer until her fingers curl around Monica's wrist on impulse, reaching out for anything steady, and Monica's lips twist into a smile because she simply cannot help herself. She interlaces their fingers beneath the blanket, and the shift in movement snaps Darcy from the screen, blushing and warm, and they are nose to nose, holding hands while the Predator eviscerates a hunter.

She tells herself it's no different than Darcy painting her nails: quiet, innocent, comforting contact. But Darcy swallows thickly, a smile on her unkissed lips, and shifts a little closer against Monica's side as she sips her drink, and all versions of Monica know it's not quite the same. Her heart is racing and her thumb brushes Darcy's skin, and she doesn't need the echo of her mother's voice in her head to tell her what that means. 

An hour later the credits roll and Jimmy yawns himself out the door, grumbling about how Predator would have won and stalemates are a copout, and Darcy sleeps on Monica's shoulder, her breathing steady and slow. She takes the empty cup from her hands and sinks slowly to the pillows, moving aside a package of Twizzlers as Darcy slides against her in a rustle of soft cotton, head resting on her collarbone. Darcy's wet hair leaves a puddle on her chest and Monica's already a light sleeper. She probably can't sleep like this: restlessness regularly plagues her, and that's without sharing a bed with anyone.

But she sinks into the pillows, arms wrapped around Darcy's warmth. It won't hurt to stay a while, and she's tired and full of bourbon and bundled up in a sleepy hug; it's irrefutably comfortable. She'll get up soon, she tells herself. Darcy's arm snakes around her ribcage, settling in a loose embrace, and Monica rests her head against her damp hair.

When she wakes in the morning, Monica blinks back the pink dawn light drifting through the slats, surprised that Darcy still nestles against the side of her body, one arm slung over her stomach, sleeping soundly, the scent of bright, lemony shampoo infused in her shirt.

* * *

The room is dark again, except for the slanted ivory lines across Darcy's face from the lights outside. They keep their routine of the last week, watching movies with Jimmy every other evening after being relieved on station, but tonight it's just Monica and Darcy, alone in their room, staring at each other across the walkway. Monica's not exactly an introvert, though she deeply values down time and privacy, but she does find herself chattering on about things she wouldn't normally voice because Darcy is a good audience and they have more in common than she would have suspected.

They don't talk about _Alien vs. Predator_ night, though Monica disentangled herself from Darcy's arms that morning as slowly as she could, and Darcy blinked up at her groggily, smiling sleepily, and pulled the warm pillow against her chest instead. They don't talk about it, and haven't shared a bed since, but sometimes Monica sits a little closer than she normally would, and Darcy keeps picking scary movies despite Jimmy's complaints. Her fingers always find Monica's hand beneath the blanket.

Tonight Monica reclines in her own bed, cheek resting against her palm. "I'm a C-list Avengers celebrity, and that's still more attention than I wanted."

"Uh, no, you're at least B-list. Don't sell yourself short. I'm C-list and I'm only that high because one time Thor gave me a shout out and TMZ stalked me for a week until they bailed because I'm so boring."

"You're not boring," Monica laughs.

"I _am_ boring, and I spent five years either studying or vegetating on my couch. I wasn't doing anything exciting or changing the world, so I can't imagine the paparazzi situation with you and your mom."

Monica's knees curl into her chest, abruptly defensive. The unacknowledged discomfort of her mother's death lodges beneath her skin like a splinter she can't get out, shoving deeper and deeper until a scab forms over it and it's just a permanent fixture inside her. It's not healthy, she knows. And though the knot of it constricts in her throat and she feels like she's drowning, she wants it out of her. She's sure now.

"They followed us everywhere. They were ruthless," Monica murmurs.

She remembers hitting the dirt on the perimeter of the Hex and, just before the helicopters and SUVs blinded her, she could clearly see the stars. She longed for the quiet times on her front porch with mom and Aunt Carol and ten hundred thousand galaxies that didn't really matter because the only important people were there beside her, warm and happy under a blanket, rocking on the creaky porch swing. That innocence is gone, and she has a job to do, and a life that passes her by at Mach speed, even faster than her mother dared to travel.

"I know it was five years for everyone else, but for me it was like I woke up and she was gone. We didn't say goodbye or anything like that. I didn't think— she was always so strong. Nothing stopped her."

It would be easier, maybe, if she didn't have to look at Darcy and her sad blue eyes, if she didn't have to see how her words pain her, though she listens with all the kindness and honesty she's always shown.

"Did you feel abandoned?" Darcy softly asks.

Monica is surprised by the pointed question, and more surprised that it doesn't flip a fight-or-flight response switch in her mind. She's grounded and steady and the answer doesn't scare her, not here, not with Darcy, who accepts everything she says without judgment.

"No, not like that. I don't think so, at least," Monica crosses her arms across her chest, as if to keep her heart from pounding out of her sternum. "I think I feel weird about it because I'm— god, it's so stupid and awful to say." She laughs bitterly, rough and hard. "I feel disappointed in her. I'm disappointed that she died. That she wasn't strong enough to hold on until I got back. Isn't that the most unreasonable, fucked up thing you've ever heard?"

"No," says Darcy, her face still.

"I'm mad at my mom, who had terminal cancer, for dying when I was gone for five fucking years. As if I have the right to resent her for all she's done and all she's survived. Like she died alone because she just couldn't wait; like she just gave up or something. It's totally illogical and petty. It's _ugly_."

"It's grief," Darcy breathes.

The weeks since her return have been full of ghosts and graveyards, and words that were missing altogether, replaced by scripted speech that didn't come from her mind. She's furious with Hayward. She's afraid of Wanda. She's livid with her mother and Aunt Carol and _herself_ for letting this happen, for rushing forward because she has something to prove and is too stupid to recognize that she will never find it because sometimes meaningless cruelties happen, and she doesn't know how to cut her losses.

She misses her family and rock collection and the creaky swing on her front porch. She misses the part of herself that was stronger than this.

"I'm mad. I'm so mad at everyone and everything, and it's just eating me alive," she whispers.

"I think you're really brave, and strong," Darcy stares at her lips, "and I'm here, if you ever wanna fuck about it."

Monica blinks twice rapid succession, the words ringing in her head like a bell, her sorrow vanished in surprise. "What?"

Darcy tilts her head against the pillow, glasses askew on the end of her nose. "I said if you wanted to talk about it, I'm here. We don't have to."

She shifts her weight on the grey mattress, smiling, "Is that what you said?"

"Yeah, I was trying to be nice. Or like, comforting," Darcy's eyes dart around her bed, as if self-consciously searching for answers to where and how she misstepped. But her blanket says nothing and Monica says nothing, so she wraps her arms around herself and mutters, "I don't know."

Pity tugs at Monica's heart, filled to bursting with the urge to reassure her, to show her own smile up close, because she firmly believes that Darcy is confused and didn't register her own words, and cannot fathom how her slip-up delights Monica in the core of her being. She pulls back her blanket, crosses the room, and perches at Darcy's bedside. Her eyes widen in the dark, adjusting to the unfamiliar presence beside her, and the rise and fall of her chest grows shallow.

"I think you had a Freudian slip, Dr. Lewis."

"I— ah. That does sound like something I would do, given the circumstances."

Her fingers brush the side of Darcy's neck, parting a waterfall of chestnut hair, dancing against her pulse point, searing white-hot as spent shells. Her voice lowers, gentle and sentimental, "What circumstances are those?"

"The circumstances," Darcy tilts up her chin, baring more of her long neck, "are that I am incredibly attracted to you and it's driving me crazy."

Monica laughs, rich and silvery. Her hand slides around the back of Darcy's neck, holding her head, thumb grazing the soft skin beneath her earlobe. "Do you wanna fuck about it?"

Blue eyes close in exquisite agony. " _God_ , yes."

She can't resist that enthusiasm, or Darcy's hooded eyes and the way her lips never quite press back together. She takes her face between her palms, thumbs resting on her sharp cheekbones, and kisses her gently, once, twice, before the logical part of her mind has even fully committed to doing so. She tastes like chapstick and her lips are pillowy-soft, just beginning to part beneath her, sighing delicately into her—

But Darcy wants more, and she wants it _now_ : she flings her arms around her neck and opens her mouth for Monica's tongue, a whimper in the back of her throat, trembling, already addicted. Monica slides over her, pressing her to the bed, tickled by the soft graze of her fingernails between her shoulder blades and the skin over her ribcage. She moans, loud and shameless, and Monica pulls back, breathing hard, "We should probably lock the door."

"Mhmm, okay," Darcy follows her movement as she peels away, pulling off her sweatshirt in a huff as she momentarily recollects her thoughts, her expression shaded with sudden worry. "It's not like a security compromise or, uh, conduct unbecoming because _technically_ we're not in the same department. We're just two friends, lookin' for some stress relief. Because we're adults and we can do that."

The laundry list of reassurances fills the room, as if Darcy needs an excuse to kiss her, or thinks Monica needs an excuse to kiss back because this is impulsive and immature, and not at all like Darcy's perception of Captain Monica Rambeau; it's a feedback loop in which Darcy gives reassurances because she needs reassurances. Monica moves with smooth certainty through the dark and merely chuckles, "I'm really not worried about it."

The doorknob clicks and Monica turns back to her searching, curious eyes with a lopsided grin. She is aligned again: she wants Darcy and Darcy wants her and that alone lights a molten glow in her stomach in the hollow space where loneliness used to be. Darcy is rooted and real and leaves no room to guess at her intentions, propped up on her elbows, lips pulled into her mouth. It strikes her all at once with a deep, yawning affection that Darcy is worried about her: about rushing her or getting her in trouble, about emotionally compromising her. It is unbearably sweet that she would sever this powerful, tangible connection in a heartbeat to protect her.

"I mean it. I want you," Monica murmurs. She removes the blanket and covers Darcy with the weight of her body instead, sliding her hand beneath her shirt, fingers searching beneath the fabric for a bra that isn't there. She grazes against the warm handful of Darcy's breast as she sighs, "We're just two gals bein' pals."

"Oh my god," moans Darcy, arching her back as she slides out of her shirt entirely. "That's the horniest thing you've ever said. It's even better than when you threatened to kill me."

"Yeah, you liked that, didn't you? I'm gonna get you a shirt that says _Wet for Memes_ ," Monica smiles, dropping her mouth lower, her tongue and thumb rolling against the hardening flesh of Darcy's nipples.

"Stop, stop, you're gonna make me come," Darcy laughs, ringing and bright. Her fingers dig into Monica's thighs, pulling her down between her own legs, pressing up against her for more friction and heat. Darcy sighs at the pressure, her body writhing and grinding with irresistible need. No part of her tries to hide her desire; she's defenseless, unguarded, enchanting. She wants more, she needs more, and Monica longs to give it to her. 

Monica pulls back her mouth with a wet _pop_ , readjusting her hips, and says, "That's the idea."

Her fingertips graze the elastic waistband of Darcy's sweatpants and her left hands roams up the length of her body, gathering her wrists in one hand and pinning them to the pillows overhead. Her legs spread at once as she whimpers, following Monica's lips with wanton fervor. Her pulse roars in her ears, louder even than the symphony of heavy breathing that fills the quiet of their room, and Monica exhales when she touches her, perfectly hot and slick and unconditionally beautiful in a way that steals her breath. She strokes slowly and steadily and Darcy moves with her, matching her rhythm, until her fingers slip inside and it's Darcy's turn to gasp in exhilarated breathlessness.

Her voice catches as she begs, "Please take these pants off. Please, please."

"You're reading my mind." Monica releases her pinned wrists and pulls Darcy's legs toward her as she kneels off the side of the bed. She tugs off her sweatpants and admires the lovely shape of her beneath them, kissing up the soft planes of Darcy's thighs, salivating at the sight: a vision, a masterpiece with sea-deep blue eyes that smile down at her.

Darcy leans forward, capturing Monica's mouth in a searing kiss, thumbs playing against her lips, before she rises to her feet, hands snaking through the bars of the top bunk's cold metal railing. She raises one leg, hooking it over Monica's shoulder, and licks at her lower lip. She rasps, "Can you read mine?"

"Yes, ma'am, I think I can." Monica exhales against her inner thigh, and she can hear the passionate awe in her own voice. She eases Darcy's hips forward to her mouth, relishing the heel that digs into the muscles of her back, drawing her closer. Her tongue works gently at first, exploring her warmth with the adoration she deserves. One knuckle, then two, and a whimper drifts down from above, and Darcy's own hands are bloodless white from her grip on the bunk bed, holding on for dear life while she grinds onto Monica's mouth.

_I should have done this sooner,_ Monica smiles and moans into her, fingers pumping faster as her tongue flattens.

Darcy clamps her palm over her mouth, biting at the webbing of her thumb, but it does nothing to stifle her impressive vocals, a rapidly shortening crescendo of moans and crying out, and her standing knee quivers with overwhelm. Her white knuckled grip on the bars won't be enough to hold her as she unravels, and all Monica can think is, _What a beautiful compliment._

"God damn, god _damn_ ," Darcy moans in a choked whisper.

She gasps, pressing forward and down onto Monica until her words vanish into a lewd, panting mewl, and her knee buckles when she comes. She squeaks in shock, grasp slipping from the railing, but Monica catches her, arms around her waist and one leg, lowering her gently to the bed with a laugh. She pulls the blanket up to cover her nude form, which really is criminal, but Darcy shivers from the chill and aftershocks of her orgasm.

When she stabilizes, Darcy sighs contentedly, reaching her arms around Monica's shoulders and pulling in her for a kiss, tasting herself and flushing with pleasure. She exhales, mystified, "I gotta get a bunk bed."

"You're reading my mind again," Monica chuckles. She presses their lips together. "You taste so good."

"Monica?" Darcy breathes, fingers grazing the nape of her neck.

"Yes?"

"I need you to be naked now, and I need you to sit on my fucking face," she murmurs, all lusty, easy confidence.

Monica's eyebrows shoot up to her forehead, but she's a good solider and she follows orders and there's no denying that Darcy's given her a command. She leans back onto her knees, hunching beneath the top bunk, and pulls off her blue t-shirt. Before she's slipped out of her top, Darcy's hands are on her collarbone and stomach and breasts, brushing and kneading, and she hums, voice laced with admiration, "Of _course_ , you have perfect abs. God _damn_."

Darcy rips the shirt from her arms, throwing it to metal floor without a second glance, her lips sucking and licking the length of Monica's front, fingers dragging the elastic band of her boxers off and away. Darcy lays down, eyes hooded, positioning Monica over her face until her knees bracket her shoulders, and her heart leaps in heady anticipation. Her hands are everywhere, above, around, behind; they massage her thighs, spreading her legs apart, exploring Monica with a single delicate finger until she quivers and whines for more.

Then Darcy pulls her down onto her mouth, tongue working like she's hungry, like she'll die if Monica doesn't come on her face, and Monica bucks and moves against her, fingers laced through the horizontal bars overhead. She's never been with someone so openly, unrepentantly _eager_ for her pleasure. There is a warm hand on her low back and a finger pressing deeply into her, and a tongue unabashedly enjoying its work. It's too much and the tension overflows into a gasping release, and Monica cries out, arching her back when she makes mess of Darcy's face and hand.

Darcy lowers her down with a glistening smile, rolling atop her for another flurry of soft kisses on every inch of skin she can reach. She's on her back and it feels a little bit like when she came out of the Hex and found the earth and stars, and she breathed deeply of the peace it offered. Except now Darcy is the star looming over her, smiling and bright, her long brown hair draping over both of their faces. She kisses Monica's lips again, lightly, languidly, pressing her hips down and rolling them just slightly, as if to say she isn't quite sated yet. Monica smiles against her mouth, thumbs hooked in the crease where her thighs meet her hips.

Darcy hums, still writhing, "You wanna do it on the top bunk too?"

"Definitely," Monica breathlessly nods.

"Race you," says Darcy. She peels out of her arms and bolts up the metal ladder, completely naked. Monica enjoys the view for a second longer before she climbs up behind her, a wicked grin on her face.

* * *

A knock rips through the barracks, jolting Monica's mind, and she bolts upright as Darcy slips from her shoulder and onto the pillow beneath them. Her brown eyes dart around the room, taking in Darcy's nakedness and the messy top bunk where they slept, and the bright morning light filtering in from the windows outside. She groans. It's at least 0900.

Darcy moans, rolling off of her, "Did we oversleep?"

"I, uh, have your coffees," Jimmy mutters into the locked door. "They're kinda cold now."

"Oh my god," moans Darcy, taking in eyefuls of Monica's panicked face. "You're real." She flops back onto the bed, stretching languorously. "And you're still a fucking dream."

Monica wants to grunt _we're gonna be in so much trouble_ , but she's not sure that's true, and all she manages is, "And you're not making it easy to get up."

"I don't wanna get up," Darcy smirks into her pillow, one eye smiling up at her.

Monica leans down, unbothered by her own nudity, and kisses her temple as her fingertips trace the curve of her back. She disentangles herself despite Darcy's protests, climbing down the ladder and tugging on her pajama shirt and shorts before she unlocks the heavy door for Jimmy, who stands before her in complete bewilderment.

"Were, uh, wow," stumbles Jimmy. His eyes flicker back and forth between them. "I saw it coming, but wow."

Monica squints, "You saw it—"

"Don't freak out, Jimmy. It's totally casual." Darcy's voice is laced with sleep, grey blankets pulled up to cover her chest. She drawls, truncating the word, "Totally cas."

"Cas," he repeats, glancing at Monica for confirmation.

"We're good. Though your discretion in this matter is appreciated."

"Jimmy, if you tell anyone I'll make Monica kill you."

He frowns, more disturbed by Monica's subsequent smirk than any idle threat Darcy could fling his direction. He says, "I'm gonna go. Let you two, uh, get ready."

"Thanks for the coffee. We'll be out shortly," Monica smiles, taking the paper cups from his hands. She nudges the door closed with her foot, offering one of the coffees to the top bunk where Darcy drapes over the side. "Totally casual?"

"Roger that, totally cas," Darcy smirks, bending over to kiss her as she slides her arm through the metal bars, gingerly lifting the paper coffee cup from her grasp. "I mean, "Wilco, Fast—"

"Nope. No. Not even now."

Darcy quizzically tilts her head, "What if I paint your nails?"

"Not gonna cut it."

"Maybe another Freudian slip?" Darcy asks.

Monica pops the lid off her cup, blowing away the steam. Her cheeks are warm with last night's memories and the smiling face of the disheveled, content woman before her.

"Negotiable," she concedes, and she stands on her tiptoes to kiss her again.

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd write Marvel on main, but I couldn't resist these two. RIP me. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed the story! They brighten my whole day!
> 
> EDIT: Completely obsessed with this incredible commission from [Hattersarts](https://hattersarts.tumblr.com/post/645552297065201664/darcymonica-commission-for-tripleburger-3). Brb I'm dying because my heart exploded.  
> 


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